Then there's you
by fire-and-fall
Summary: Burt doesn't survive his heart-attack and Kurt is sent to live with his grandmother. He shuts out his friends, gets rid of his designer clothes, gives up singing and changes schools. Blaine ends up being Kurt's roommate.  AU


**Title:** Then there's you  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Warnings:** Character death (but not Kurt or Blaine), little swearing here and there. (Also did I mention angst? Because there's a whole lot of it.)  
**Word Count:** ~4200  
**Summary: **Originally written for promt at the glee_angst_meme. I changed a few things here and there but the idea is the same: Burt doesn't survive his heart-attack and Kurt is sent to live with his grandmother. He shuts out his friends, gets rid of his designer clothes, gives up singing and changes schools. Blaine ends up being Kurt's roommate. (I suck at summaries.)  
**A/N:** Originally posted at my livejournal by the same username.

***  
Kurt taps his fingers lightly against the brown casket – once, twice, three times. He tries to match his breathing to the rhythm of his movements, forcing the air in and out of his lungs. Surely it's not that hard – he's been doing it for almost seventeen years now.

He ignores the small, nagging voice in his mind that's been screaming and thrashing around inside him since that day. It's not because he's forgotten how to breathe – he's just not sure if he still wants to try.

There's a small, soft hand, the lightest pressure, against the nape of his neck, caressing the skin there and making the hairs on Kurt's arm stand up.

"Kurt, honey."

"I know," Kurt says quietly, his voice sounding strange and foreign to his own ears. It's better this way, somehow. He takes a step back and away from the hole, his fingers resuming the rhythmic tapping against his left leg.

_In and out; in and out._

He tears his eyes away from the casket when music starts playing from somewhere, and looks down at the similar blue-grey eyes of his grandmother staring up at him with more concern than he can bear. The gaze is similar to his own, but also different: specks of brown, old age, and time reflecting in the irises. He thinks about his father's eyes, just before he saw them looking at him for the last time – sad; disappointed; _hurt_.

He finds that looking at his father's headstone is less painful than reliving something for the thousandth time. The lines swim and blur before him, and he barely registers as the casket begins to lower into the ground. He never once stops moving his finger.

_Loving husband and father._

There are shapes moving around him – up to him, touching him, hugging him, talking to him. Sometimes he remembers to say "Thank you." Sometimes he wants to scream _"Fuck you,"_ because it _won't_ just _get better with time._ But he doesn't, because he was taught better than that. He was taught better by the man who is lying under a pile of dirt now, next to a woman Kurt doesn't remember missing this much. He concentrates on the light taps against his leg, on his breathing, on his heart in his own ears.

The hand slips from his neck and down his arm, fingers clasping his own. Kurt blinks against the wind blowing in his face, and he's just a bit surprised to see the sun already setting in the sky.

He exhales, and moves legs that feel like steel.

There's a cramp in his left index finger.

***  
He throws out every single piece of clothing he owns once they get back to the house. He keeps a pair of jeans that are too big for him and a shirt that his father bought him at some fair when he was seven. It was way oversized then and it still doesn't fit him now. He remembers his father telling him how, when he became a young man, it could be his first grown-up clothing. Kurt had stacked it away in the back of his closet as soon as they got home, repulsed by the simple flannel texture and plain colors.

The shirt smells like his father, somehow, after so many years. He clutches it against his chest, sitting on the floor and leaning back against his bed as he stares at the boxes of his books and CDs lying around him.

When his phone buzzes, he throws it in the pile of discarded clothes, the pinks and blues and yellows illuminated by the screen's light.

***  
His grandmother sets everything up for him: a room with a view to the little garden; a new bed with blue bedspread; a new phone in place of the one Kurt claims he lost.

He sits on the floor for hours with it, trying to forget the numbers of his friends so he doesn't have to type them in.

When he can't recall his father's voice for a second, he freaks out and throws up kneeling on the floor of his new bathroom. He lays his head on the cool porcelain seat and doesn't hear the creak of the door as his grandmother kneels beside him. He feels her hand moving against the nape of his neck once again, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to flinch away from her.

He retches again when the smell of the hospital's disinfectant blurs with the pine scent his grandmother uses.

***  
He doesn't go back to school on Monday, or Tuesday.

He tells his grandmother on Wednesday that he wants to transfer. He doesn't care where.

She goes out on Thursday. On Friday morning she puts a pamphlet down on the dinner table.

"Dalton Academy," she says, her voice soft and almost pleading. "It has wonderful arts programs." Kurt wants to thank her when she doesn't mention that those mainly consist of the school's a cappella choir.

"Okay," he says with a tight smile, because although it's anything _but_, he doesn't need her to worry about him anymore than she already does. His grandmother stands up and moves closer to him, cradling his face in one hand.

"Tell me you'll try to sing again." She brushes his bangs out of his eyes; he threw out his hair products along with his clothes, so there's nothing with which to shape them. "They'd want you to, you know."

Kurt isn't sure if he could open his mouth without sobbing or yelling, so he keeps it shut and nods.

He notices it's easier if he stays silent, anyway.

***  
He wakes up on Sunday morning in a mess of tangled sheets and sweat and a scream that won't leave his mind or mouth.

He brushes his teeth until his gums start to bleed; until he stops seeing his Dad's ashen face and feeling the cold skin beneath his fingers; until he stops hearing the heart monitor flatline.

The mouthwash stings, but the rest of him feels numb.

His grandmother calls for him, and he grabs the small suitcase that contains nothing more than the navy uniform Dalton supplied him with.

When his grandmother hugs him at the gates of the school, his throat hurts when he tries to say, "Bye."

***  
He spends the rest of Sunday wandering around the mostly empty halls of the school, walking up and down on endless staircases and passing by enormous statues and fountains. He counts the antique swords hanging high on the walls, the classrooms he's passed, and the students he's avoided.

By the time he finds his way back to his room, it's way past time for dinner, and he still hasn't unpacked or found the teacher he was supposed to meet to have his classes sorted out.

What he does find, though, is an overly energetic, curly-haired boy sitting on his bed, who bounces up and in front of him in a matter of seconds.

"Kurt, right?" he asks, extending his right hand with a small smile. "Kurt Hummel?"

Kurt just nods as he takes the offered hand reluctantly, shaking it firmly, when he remembers his father telling him how another man's handshake can tell so much about the person.

He tries not to choke on the suddenly-thick air.

"Blaine," the other boy says, as he lets go of Kurt's hand. "Sorry about the mess I left in here. Guess you could find your bed, anyway." Blaine blushes slightly, and Kurt doesn't tell him that he only spent about a minute in the room before he started to feel like the walls were closing in on him, and that he left before he could even look around.

"I picked up your books for you," Blaine adds, his eyes searching Kurt's. He has the longest eyelashes Kurt has ever seen, and Kurt wonders if he could count them like he did with the tiles in the entrance hall. "Mr. Greendale couldn't find you, so he dropped them off with me."

"I'm sorry for the trouble," Kurt says on autopilot.

Blaine's eyes are the most exquisite hazel, browns and greens melting into each other in the soft light of the room. Kurt feels dizzy and disoriented all of a sudden. He can't concentrate on the conversation, but he notices that Blaine has two freckles right on the top of his nose.

"Hey, no," Blaine says and there's a hand on his arm. Kurt kind of wants to lean into the touch; he also wants to tell Blaine to fuck off. He doesn't do either.

"No trouble. Maybe we should sit down?" Blaine offers, but he's already pulling Kurt toward one of the beds. Kurt sits down and bites back the nausea crawling at the back of his throat. Blaine's hand is still on his arm, soft and warm and steady, and Kurt doesn't realize he's trying to match his breathing to the other boy's until Blaine whispers a simple "Easy" softly, soothingly. Kurt is getting used to the fact that he can't breathe without something else to guide him through the motions.

Blaine lets go of his arm long enough to pour some water into a plastic cup, offering it to Kurt. Kurt wants to ask him why he cares at all; how he can sit next to a trainwreck boy he's met only two minutes ago, why he doesn't flinch away from the mess that his life has become, the way Kurt wants to do most of the time.

He wants to ask how he should fix this and how to feel like himself once again.

Kurt knows Blaine probably knows everything about him, about the reason he's transferred in the middle of a semester – news like this travels fast. But if Blaine knows, he doesn't say anything. He talks to Kurt about classes and teachers, the school's a cappella group of which he is a member, and his ideas for future songs they could perform. He keeps Kurt occupied by showing him around the small room; its little adjoined bathroom; the closet he emptied for Kurt's things. He offers Kurt half of a sandwich and a vanilla pudding he claims to have snagged from the cafeteria. He keeps touching Kurt's arms, his shoulders, his hands. Kurt focuses on the flow of Blaine's words; the gentle tone of his voice; the warmth Blaine's body radiates whenever Kurt steps closer to him.

Blaine pushes a bar of white chocolate towards Kurt and doesn't take no for an answer when Kurt says he's full. He sits cross-legged on Kurt's bed, telling him about the movie he saw on Saturday and the sheet music he bought in a little shop down on Main Street. Kurt knows that it should feel strange that a boy he just met an hour ago talks to him like they've been friends for years, but he lulls himself into thinking that they actually have been. He's almost certain that Blaine isn't even real, and his mind is just playing a dirty little trick on him and it created this island of normalcy for him to keep his sanity intact.

It doesn't help that Blaine _feels_ real – more so than anything that has happened to him these past few weeks.

Kurt hasn't said a word since they sat down, but Blaine doesn't seem to care. He keeps smiling and talking and _touching_, and Kurt can feel himself relax with every passing second.

He falls asleep to Blaine's voice humming out a melody he thought he'd share with the Warblers on Tuesday at practice.

He hopes that whoever his actual roommate might be, didn't witness his hallucination of the perfect boy with the perfect eyelashes and hazel eyes that make him feel like he could drown in them, and a voice that's smoother than honey.

***  
Blaine is still there in the morning, yawning and tossing around in his bed, muttering about "just five more minutes." Kurt doesn't know if he should be relieved or not.

***  
He hears Blaine sing in earnest the next day. The performance seems to be impromptu more than anything: the Warblers gathering in the senior commons singing Katy Perry's _Teenage Dream_, spinning and turning every other step, while the other students cheer them on.

Kurt sits on the edge of a couch at the far end of the room, watching Blaine watch him out of the corner of his eye, smiling at him every now and then as his voice flows through the room, clearer and louder than any of the others.

Kurt almost doesn't notice when he starts humming under the warm spray of his shower that night.

***  
Kurt doesn't actually speak to Blaine for the first two weeks. He says "Hi," and "Bye," and "Thanks," but it's the other boy who keeps their one-sided conversation going when they're alone at night. He talks about all sorts of things that pop up in his mind, it seems; Kurt listens to him and sometimes tries to answer, but he finds his voice breaking every time.

Blaine just smiles at him and nods, carrying on without a pause, and the awkwardness that should descend on them never comes.

So when, on the third week Kurt asks Blaine for his History notes, Blaine smiles back at him brilliantly, teeth flashing and eyes shining and practically falling over his shoes as he scrambles for the papers.

***  
Blaine is a small-touches, warm-smiles and arms-thrown-across-shoulders type of guy. Kurt learns to accept that, and, after another week of comfortable almost-silence, he finds himself missing the way Blaine's fingers curl around his hand when he tries to bring Kurt's attention to something.

When Kurt goes home for the weekend for the first time since he's started at Dalton, Blaine calls him right after he steps out of the school gates.

"You know they actually make jeans in your size?" Blaine laughs into the phone, warm and joking; Kurt glances back at the dorms, catching the other boy's eyes looking out of their window – at _him_.

Kurt doesn't answer, but he can't help the smile spreading over his face.

Blaine doesn't hang up until his grandmother pulls into the driveway in her battered Chevy.

***  
The nightmares start at the beginning of the fourth week.

Kurt blames himself for getting too comfortable; letting his guard down; letting his thoughts get out of control. It's all too dangerous, but it's so _nice_ to be at ease, all things considered, that he's let the darker shadows slip in unnoticed.

Till now.

He can keep them secret for two days before Blaine notices the bags under his eyes. Kurt tells him that he's had some trouble falling asleep, blaming it on the upcoming Calculus test. He's fine; just tired.

Blaine doesn't believe him, of course, but he doesn't press.

So on Wednesday night, when Kurt wakes up thrashing and screaming and _hurting, oh fucking hell it hurts too much,_ Blaine is on Kurt's bed in an instant, crushing Kurt against his body, his breath hot on Kurt's neck where he whispers soothing nonsense against Kurt's skin.

Kurt can't seem to catch his breath. He claws at Blaine's skin until it tears under the pressure, gulping in air and letting out sobs that doesn't sound like him. Blaine doesn't let go of him, and something just breaks inside Kurt all over again.

He speaks in between shallow breaths, choking on his words, and he's sure Blaine doesn't understand anything he's trying to say, but Blaine keeps nodding his head against his neck, his cheek, pressing his lips softly on his skin and _god, he's dead, she's dead, they're not coming back._

Blaine guides them lower on the bed, wrapping his arms around Kurt and tucking Kurt's head under his chin. Kurt tangles his fingers in the thin material of Blaine's T-shirt, shaking hard and feeling too cold and too warm at the same time. There's snot drying on his cheeks and on Blaine's clothes.

"It's never going to get better now, is it," he manages, whispering against Blaine's skin as he watches the steady rise and fall of Blaine's chest beneath his touch. It isn't meant to be a question.

"No," Blaine says quietly, slipping his fingers into the soft hair on the back of Kurt's head. "But you will."

***  
They go through the same thing for four days: Kurt wakes up – screaming or crying or vomiting – and Blaine slips into bed beside him. Blaine talks about movies and music and summer and presses his lips against Kurt's skin where the tears are burning his face.

On the fifth night, they climb into Kurt's bed together without a word. Kurt does wake up again, but this time, he doesn't think for a moment that he's alone.

***  
When Blaine kisses him that Saturday, without tears or sobs or any suffocating _need_ between them, it feels more natural than breathing.

***  
Next week, Kurt asks his grandmother if he could, maybe, invite a friend over for the weekend.

She says yes before Kurt can even finish the question.

He and Blaine spend their Saturday in the house's little garden, the late autumn sun giving just enough warmth for them to not want to go inside. Blaine is determined to show Kurt that he knows the theme songs of every single cartoon he's watched as a kid, and, after the second verse of _"Go, go Power Rangers!"_ – complete with hand gestures – Kurt is laughing so hard he tumbles and falls into a heap of leaves.

Blaine leans over him and singsongs _"Transformers! More than meets the eye!"_ against Kurt's lips and kisses him, sweet and breathless.

***  
When Kurt comes down for breakfast Sunday morning, leaving Blaine sprawled out like a starfish on his bed, his grandmother is already preparing enough pancakes to feed a small army. She smiles at him, effervescent, and Kurt catches his mother behind her eyes for a second: knowing without a word spoken, accepting without judgment.

Kurt hugs her when she finally stops shoveling pancakes on his plate. She gives him a kiss on the cheek that is just a little wet.

When Blaine stumbles down the stairs – he is _so_ not a morning person – he gets twice as many pancakes as Kurt.

"Guess – she likes me?" Blaine whispers to Kurt, blushing just a little as he yawns. Kurt laces their fingers together under the table.

"She may not be the only one."

***  
Kurt watches the Warblers perform, watches Blaine become giddy and jumpy and ridiculously happy just before he starts to sing.

It takes a moment too long for him to remember the feeling.

***  
Blaine catches him singing in the shower the next week, some nameless tune Kurt has almost forgotten he knew.

Kurt's voice catches in his throat when he sees Blaine looking at him, his mouth gaping and searching for words.

"Kurt – your voice," he tries, and it's too much. It feels like betrayal.

Kurt throws the shower gel bottle at Blaine's head and screams at him to get out, _get the fuck out,_ and when he doesn't move, Kurt sinks down to the bottom of the little shower.

Blaine doesn't get the hint – _annoying fuck_ – and he scrambles in beside Kurt under the cooling water, his soggy clothes clinging to his body. Kurt lets his head fall against Blaine's shoulder.

"I could ask, you know. The Warblers." Blaine catches Kurt's hand tracing the outline of the tiny red mark left on Blaine's forehead by the bottle and laces their fingers together. "They would say yes in a heartbeat."

Kurt sighs. "I'm not sure I would."

They stay under the soft spray of water until it loses all its warmth.

***  
They've been wandering around the mall for too long, waiting for their movie to start. Kurt guesses that old habits do die hard, because he can't stop touching the silky material of that stupid sweater. Blaine comes up to him and hugs him from behind, dropping his chin on Kurt's shoulder.

"It's pretty," he says. "The blue would do wonders to your eyes."

"When did you turn into Queer Eye for the Queer Guy?" Kurt asks, leaning back against Blaine. He lets go of the fabric and murmurs, "It's nothing special, anyway."

Blaine turns him around and kisses him quickly on the lips. "If you say so." He grins and leads them out of the shop.

***  
Of _course_ shit hits the fan, when, two days later Blaine gives him a hastily-wrapped package and the shiny paper falls away to reveal the blue sweater. Kurt throws it unceremoniously at Blaine's face, _again,_ and locks himself in the bathroom with a frustrated cry.

He hears Blaine's body slide down the door on other side, and he does the same. Kurt knocks his head back gently against the doorjamb.

"I'm sorry."

Blaine huffs mildly, his breath sounding scratchy from Kurt's side of the door. "At least it wasn't a shower gel bottle. That had sharp edges."

"Blaine–"

"You don't have to apologize for _me_ being an insensitive prick."

Kurt snaps open the door so fast that Blaine yelps and looks like he gets whiplash as he stumbles away. Kurt pulls Blaine up by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, hard and desperate, until both of their lips are numb and Blaine's shirt has lost a few of its buttons. Blaine pulls away, trying to catch his breath, and Kurt stares at him, this fucking _amazing_ boy who has never been anything but thoughtful, considerate, and caring, and the words spill out of him without warning or filters.

He tells Blaine about the day he last saw his father alive and breathing without the help of machines, without endless tubes hanging from his body; how Kurt dismissed him for something stupid and childish, something he doesn't even remember anymore. He tells Blaine about the day after the funeral, when he threw out everything that reminded him of the fact that he was just a shallow, superficial brat who cared more about fucking _designer clothes_ and _plays_ than his own father.

Blaine doesn't tell Kurt he's wrong, that he couldn't have known that this was going to happen, or that it's not his fault, and he shouldn't feel guilty. Kurt has heard those exact same words uttered to his father by distant relatives after his mom died, and he heard the same sentiments repeated by his friends after his father's death.

So when Kurt doesn't entirely meet Blaine's eyes, the other boy simply cups Kurt's face between his hands and holds him close. Kurt braces himself against the inevitable _it's not your fault,_ but when Blaine whispers against his mouth, lips moving over his, barely touching, he knows it's not going to come.

"I know you can't help the guilt, and _I'm_ not going to ask you to forgive yourself. I know it's either this or going mad from knowing that nothing you could have done would have helped."

Kurt's breath hitches against Blaine's words, but Blaine doesn't stop, just lifts Kurt's hands up closer to his face, and brushes his lips over his fingertips. "I know it's not my place to say, but Kurt – let _me_ forgive you."

Kurt breaks down in tears for the last time that day.

***  
He wears the blue sweater next week. He lets Blaine spin him around in it, until he feels dizzy and very much in love.

***  
The nightmares stop.

Blaine doesn't move back to his own bed.

***  
Kurt knows that Blaine has somehow arranged this; it can't be a coincidence to have two of the Warblers' council members _accidentally_ drop by their room just when he's belting his lungs out singing alongside Whitney Houston in the shower.

When he steps out of the little room, three boys stare back at him: two in wonder and one in love.

***  
When he finally accepts their offer to join the Warblers as a much-appreciated countertenor, Blaine envelopes him in a crushing hug. Kurt doesn't know which one of them is more relieved.

***  
Kurt calls Mercedes after three months. It's not as though he never left, but he knows they'll try to make it work again.

***  
"I know you'd like him, Dad. He can be a bit annoying at times, sure, and he steals the covers and snores – _hey!_" Blaine elbows him slightly and rolls his eyes at Kurt.

"Let's not get away from the topic here. I believe you were just saying how wonderful I was." Blaine smiles, goofy and a bit helpless. "Go on, then."

Kurt smiles back over his shoulder and lets Blaine wrap his arms around him. Blaine squeezes Kurt's arms, and Kurt sighs against the warm weight.

"I'm getting there, Dad."

End.


End file.
